


Untitled (Amy & Lenore)

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Community: hc_bingo, F/F, Ficlet, Minor Character(s), Moral Ambiguity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:42:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I really do want to hope that he's appreciated what you did for him, Sweetheart, but… I don't really know how much I trust that hope, when it comes to the Winchesters. I don't know how much we can trust any kind of hope when it comes to them. They're just too unpredictable. Sometimes, they respect that not all monsters are dangerous—other times, we're all inherently evil and we all deserve to die."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled (Amy & Lenore)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts, "phobias" at hc_bingo and "winter" for 100 things.

After they're together, it doesn't take them long to figure out that they both know the Winchesters. They've both run afoul of those denim-wrapped nightmares—granted, it's been longer for Amy, and she only ever met Sam, but she and Lenore have both dealt with their particular brand of dealing with non-humans. They're in bed together, with Amy curling into Lenore's arctic front and Lenore combing her frozen fingers through Amy's hair, when Amy admits that she killed her own mother to save Sam Winchester. That it was a choice between killing someone who'd killed people—who wanted Amy to kill people, too—and letting someone innocent live. And she chose Sam Winchester.

"I want to think that he's appreciated it," Lenore whispers against Amy's forehead, kisses her with chapped lips, right up by Amy's hairline. She'll need to feed soon—she's feeling desiccated, her hands are drier than her lips and her voice crackles like paper in a flame—this always happens when it's been too long since she's had blood, but Amy still tilts her head to give Lenore better access to her hair. And Lenore says again, "I really do want to hope that he's appreciated what you did for him, Sweetheart, but… I don't really know how much I trust that hope, when it comes to the Winchesters. I don't know how much we can trust any kind of hope when it comes to them. They're just too unpredictable. Sometimes, they respect that not all monsters are dangerous—other times, we're all inherently evil and we all deserve to die."

"Angels trust them, apparently," Amy points out, drops a hand to Lenore's hip and ghosts her fingers over the subtle, bony curve. Not that she knows anything about these shenanigans firsthand—but it's all out on the grapevine. Hunters talk, and so do demons, and monsters aren't exactly deaf—she and Lenore only even heard about what the Winchesters are up to these days from another vampire, a fledgling former hunter named Clarissa, who, like Lenore, only feeds on animals. Nuzzling at Lenore's throat, Amy sighs, presses a gentle kiss into the hollow above her lover's collarbone. "They're averting the Apocalypse. Saving the world. Maybe they're only doing that with humans in mind, but doesn't it make any difference that they're saving our kind—that they're saving our peoples—too? That has to count for something, right? I mean… doesn't it?"

It ought to make some kind of difference, Amy reasons, because maybe the intention isn't there—but good intentions can have negative consequences, too. What really matters, when it all comes down to dust and ashes, isn't the intention or the means, but the ends, the practical aspects of everything that happens.

"But taking that logic to its furthest extreme… doesn't that make us no better than they are?" Lenore ducks her chin, rests her forehead in Amy's hair, nudging her nose up against Amy's forehead. "The practical ends of what we do to survive are that we live, and we still exploit the deaths of others to see that happen… You and Jacob take dead pituitary glands. I'd still rob a blood bank instead of drinking animals, if I didn't think that getting any taste of human blood—even cold human blood—would ruin everything I've tried to build for myself. We still profit from the deaths of others—whether they're sentient or not. Doesn't that make us no better than the Winchesters? Than all of the other hunters who don't have any sense that not all monsters are the same?"

Amy looks up at her lover when she hears Lenore's breath catch in her throat—when she hears the slow, steady rhythm of Lenore's dead heart increase until it could have an average human's pace. She sighs as she coaxes Lenore down into a gentle kiss, sucks on her chapped lips, whispers into her mouth that they're not killers—much less indiscriminate murderers—that they're not these things because they don't kill anyone themselves—well, anyone except for cattle. She whispers _don't worry so much, don't judge yourself so harshly_ into Lenore's mouth, and as she cards her fingers through Lenore's hair, Amy fully believes that there's nothing to worry about.

Well, the looming Apocalypse and Jacob's parent-teacher conferences, maybe, but there's nothing that she and Lenore can _do_ about those issues. And the fact remains that they aren't killers. Not anymore. Not since Lenore switched from human blood, and not since Amy killed her mother in the name of saving someone else. They're not killers. Not really. Not at all. They can't be.


End file.
